Shanghaied

By Jon Howe

In the fall of 1810, Eamon McGrath wakes up in the hold of a ship far out at sea. Stolen from his New England life and family, he has been shanghaied to work aboard a merchant vessel, replacing crew lost to the British Navy. As Eamon circles the globe, he survives a terrible beating, storms, and shipwreck

• Language: English
• Publisher: Koehler Books
• Release date: Oct 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888241271

Jon Howe

Jon Howe grew up along the Gulf Coast of Florida. A few years after college, he moved to the Pacific Northwest, got his captain's license, taught sailing for five years, managed a fleet of charter boats for ten, and sold boats for fifteen. In between, he raced to Hawaii, skippered charters, and delivered yachts. When he retired, he sold his house to buy the boat he would live aboard for fourteen years. He sailed around Central America to Florida, down the West Indies to Colombia and Panama, out to Hawaii, and then back to the Pacific Northwest. He now lives with his beloved on San Juan Island, near his family.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A shock of cold water wakes Eamon.

He is in too much pain to care what brings him up from the dark. His whole body feels bruised, numb, and twisted. His spine and limbs are getting painful revenge for whatever way he crumpled, unconscious. As he tries to orient, these first few seconds feel slow but dizzily accelerate. Before his questions cascade, before he pries his eyes open, something in his gut is heavy beyond all experience. It informs him with terrible certainty that something is wrong, unbelievably wrong, that it will crash in on him, that there is nothing he can do about it. Where does this information come from? How could his senses learn anything while he lay near dead?

His first thought takes shape around a stench, but impressions are not yet words. Next are sounds, something creaking and water. Surf? His cheek is wet, pressed against a wooden floor. He feels motion. Sudden and wide, he opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is the sole of a shoe close by his face. His arms push him up of their own quick volition. Aach! He is surrounded by semi-darkness. Attached to that shoe is a person, inert on the floor. And another next to him, and another. Now his thoughts race. Who are they? What are we doing on the pub floor? He tries to fit what is happening into his memory of last night: the warmth at The King’s Rook, the crowd singing worse and louder as they drink more. Wait. The floor is indeed moving. This isn’t the pub floor! He tries to rise, but halfway up loses balance, reaches out, finds nothing to grab onto, and tumbles to an awkward sitting position, almost landing on another body. There are four of them.

Looking for anything familiar, rubbing panicked eyes, his first words slur weakly out, Where-m I? His voice sounds distant to himself. Wha’s happening? To clear his mind, he shakes his head. It hurts. He rubs the back of it. He catches sight of a figure distant in the shadows: a man standing carelessly steady, one hand raised to the low ceiling to steady himself and a wooden bucket in the other. Eamon frowns. "Who’re you? Where the hell am I?" The rage in his voice contrasts with fear and weakness in his heart.

Behind the man, there is a ladder in a glaring patch of sunlight. His tall silhouette is thin, and he stoops to duck the overhead. He has a mop of hair and a beard, a loose shirt, and ragged breeches tied with a cord. His feet are bare. Uncaring, he replies with a voice as casual as his stance, Welcome aboard, mate. He turns to walk toward the ladder but looks back when he hears the emotion in Eamon’s voice.

Becca! Oh no! And Alex and Amy. Lord, no!

The intensity the man hears surpasses him. He climbs the ladder, vanishing into the light.

I’m on a ship! Eamon almost gags on his words. Bloody hell! This can’t be! I’ve got to get off. Attacked by each approaching second, he shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, only to open them again to this nightmare. He cannot fight the seconds off. If we’re within sight of land . . . but it’s too cold to swim. Maybe I can bribe the captain to go back. Or I’ll lie that he’s got the wrong man, that I’m important and he’s in trouble.

At a loss, he glances about and struggles to his feet. I’ll take a boat on deck, even if I have to fight for it. I can tell east from west. Weaving toward the ladder, grimacing, he stops and turns back. But I can’t do it alone. Maybe I can recruit the others.

They are coming to, rubbing their heads and necks. Their pains echo Eamon’s own. He comes back the few unsteady steps and lowers himself to one knee to help the biggest of them sit up. We’ve been kidnapped, stolen! We’re on a ship. And the sooner we get off, the better chance we have to get back. Can you get to your feet? We might have to fight our way out of here.

Slow down, will ya? The man looks about. By God, you’re serious! He turns to Eamon. Aren’t you the printer?

Yes, I’m serious. And I’m Eamon. You’re Sam, right?

Right. Wouldn’t think you knew my name as little as you go out. Looks like you picked the wrong night, though. Must’ve been somethin’ in the beer. The glaze over Sam’s eyes is clearing. Y’know, I’ve got crops to get in.

You’ll not be getting crops in from the middle of the ocean.

A groggy younger voice asks from behind Eamon, Wud he say, Sam?

Coop! You’re here too? Mercy.

Eamon goes to help the young man. The middle of the ocean, that’s what I said. We’ll be there if we don’t get busy. We’ve been kidnapped. You’re on a ship, and the longer you take to get off, the farther you’ll have to row to go back.

You’re crazy! The young man leans away from Eamon. As the ship rolls, he plants his hands on the deck as if to hold it still. His eyes widen. Whoa! Maybe you’re not.

Heed me; we’ve got to muster up here. If we fight for one of the boats on deck, we might have a chance.

Yer right, lad. He’s crazy, a deep voice starts. The oldest of the victims sits with his back against what they now know to be the hull of a ship. He massages his neck while he rolls his head back and forth. It’s called shanghaied. We’ve been shanghaied. They’ve thrown us in an empty hold, taken us to sea, and don’t need to lock us up. There’s nowhere to run out here. And if I’ve ever heard of gettin’ home after this, I haven’t believed it.

Coop worries. If we fight the captain and crew, wouldn’t it be mutiny? They hang people for that!

Mutiny? You cannot be serious! Eamon almost shouts. To kidnap someone is a crime. We can’t be hung for doing what it takes to go back. I don’t care what they call it. I have GOT to get home. And I can’t do it alone, but between the five of us, we might be able to hold them off.

Between the four of us, Sam interrupts. This one’s dead. They all wince. Sam has crawled to where he can reach the cold neck of the body wearing the shoe Eamon first saw. You can see what our lives are worth, eh? Back home, this is murder, but out here, he’ll get tossed over the side, and no one will know.

Do ya see now? the older man agrees. We best be tryin’ to survive instead of tryin’ to get home. Our homes is here now.

Who? Coop looks askance at the dead man. Who is he?

Does it matter? He’s dead. He’s nobody now.

But someone should be told, Coop almost whispers.

There’s no one to tell. None of us was a motherless child, but we all are now. The sooner ya get over it, the better. Yer part of a crew, and it’s yer next breath ya better worry about. What good are ya if yer dead?

Eamon jolts from staring at the body. It’s the same bloody thing. Our home can’t be here. We’ve got families and crops and trades. We can’t just vanish from our lives. Look, we don’t have time to argue. Are you with me or not?

Have mercy, but I’m not with ya. I’ve been here before. Wish I could say it weren’t so, but ’tis. My skipper won’t be happy I don’t come back, but he’ll figure it out. He’ll pocket my wages and replace me easy enough.

You’re one of them? A sailor? Coop asks.

Aye, for more than thirty year now. I stopped countin’. I wasn’t shanghaied, though. I ran away. My family was starvin’ and didn’t need another mouth to feed. I was young and full of pluck. Shanghaiin’ started aboard men of war, but when merchant ships lost crew to the navies, they learned it too. My blood, I should’a seen it comin’ when that crew come in the pub last night. I’ve followed those orders myself.

What? You’ve kidnapped men? Eamon wants to strike the man, but they both know his anger is useless. You . . . blackheart!

Ya don’t know what you’re in for. You’ll learn to follow orders. Sometimes it’s the only way to fight for yer life.

But this is not my life! My life is back there. There’s nothing here to fight for. Eamon starts feeling dizzy.

Then you’ll be out’a yer misery soon enough and swimmin’ with our dead friend. Ya better hope this ship’s desperate for crew so ya live long enough to get down off yer horse.

Eamon breaks into a sweat. He drops to his knees, braces a hand against the hull, and vomits a barely discreet distance from the man. Sam is soon doing the same.

Yer too seasick to fight anyway, yer lordship.

Between heaves, Eamon scowls sideways at him.

Coop suggests they need fresh air, so they help each other to their feet.

Don’t be tryin’ anythin’ fancy up there, mates, the man bids them. Just get to the rail and get yer bearings. Any ship that shanghais is rough enough. We’re sure in for a long trip without makin’ it worse.

As they start for the ladder, Sam stops them. Y’know, maybe we should know your name if we’re mates. I’m Sam. I’m a farmer. This here is Coop, the cooper’s son. And that’s Eamon, the printer.

I’m Jack, bosun’s mate on . . . on my last ship. And we’re all sailors now, so let’s stick together. With a little luck, I’ll get ya through another day.

Leaning on each other, they stagger toward the ladder. There they are blinded by sunlight. Add to that their lack of sea legs; it is no wonder that when they stumble up on deck, the only one left standing is Jack. He tries to help them up and glances over his shoulder at the same time.

CHAPTER 2

Eamon is frantic to scan the horizon. He doesn’t wait for Jack’s help. Oblivious to the ship’s landscape and crew, he half-crawls, half-runs for the portside, up the deck’s slant, away from the water racing by to starboard. When Jack catches sight of their welcoming committee, Eamon is beyond his reach. He asks Sam for Eamon’s name, to call him back, but forces are in motion. If this goes badly, he hopes there will be pieces left to pick up.

Unaware of the sight he is and the sounds he makes, Eamon’s entire focus is on the nearest object, heedless whether it’s made of wood, cloth, hemp, or flesh. As long as it serves as a handhold or foothold, he scrambles toward the rail, not noticing the derision he draws.

When he gets to the gunwale, he squints into a blast of wind and spray. The scene before him is riotous. Under a cold sun, waves crash to an empty horizon. It strikes him like a blow, shattering his hope of getting off the ship. The shards of those hopes slice something inside him. He feels himself bleeding from mortal wounds that no one can see, and there is no defense.

NOOOO!! howls out of him. He squeezes his eyes shut. Oh, Lord, no. He doesn’t know what he sobs next. No breath can speak it. His jaw clenches, yet words spew out. I can’t be here. I’m . . . NO, GOD DAMN!

What the crew witnesses takes them by surprise. They’ve never seen grief so manifest. This madman arrives on deck spattered in puke and moving like a monkey. Despite stumbling, he is strong and fast. He runs right over the top of a crew member sitting with his back against a hatch. At the rail, when Eamon’s body curls in pain, they all suspect the man he ran over, but he holds no weapon and gestures innocence. Eamon winces and contorts as if a ghost is stabbing him. His hands flail to ward off an invisible attacker. His fingers curl and spread. When he buries his face in them, the men half expect it to emerge bloody. Their superstitions stirred, the sailors exchange nervous glances. He starts to slump to the deck but writhes back up, his head half thrown back, a random grip on the rigging, and another ragged sound tears from him. The crew recoils from his gaze; there is no safe distance from that look. In the next second, he sees through them as if they aren’t there. Why would the bosun shanghai a lunatic?

At last, he collapses next to the bulwark, heaving dry. He pounds the deck weakly and mutters, No. Oh no. Inside himself, Eamon indeed drops over an edge, goes mad. In the ship’s lingo, he cuts himself adrift.

The first mate sees this affecting his men, and he’ll afford none of it. You! he shouts to the nearest sailor. Get the bosun up here while I straighten this out. He has risen to his rank by brute force, and he will die before he loses command. This makes him different from the crew. This and the fact that he likes a fight. With the rush of adrenaline, his pulse becomes a drumbeat in his ears, and he feels more alive. This time, he is a third bigger than his victim, who can hardly even stand. Short work this, but he hopes not too short. He feels the crew’s attention and intends to impress them. Starting toward the tormented man, he roars, You there!

Eamon is far gone, yet his instincts warn him of the mate’s approach. Lacking sea legs, he grasps a piece of rigging to stand and turns to face the man. His senses begin to return. Smells, sounds, the wind on his neck—none of it coherent and all beyond caring, but details get through. The man coming toward him is more than imposing. He is tall and broad, his neck thick and limbs large. His beard hides half of a scar on his right cheek. His teeth are mottled. His black hair is tied back into a dirty tail with a red kerchief. Unlike the other men, he wears shoes. His white stockings reach above his knees to his breeches, also white. While most of the men on board secure their trousers with a length of rope, he wears a broad belt and buckle. A blue waistcoat covers his dull linen shirt.

Eamon loses the man’s words but can see his intention. What has been pure pain in Eamon snaps into rage. When his right hand comes loose from the rail, it’s with a belaying pin in hand. As if by magic, he holds a cudgel. With no idea what he is doing, he hurls himself at his attacker.

The mate is caught off guard. Usually, he goads his victims and corners them into a fight, but this man is insane. When they retell the story, the crew will say that Eamon was foaming at the mouth, snarling like an animal. The exaggeration will be only slight.

Eamon’s rush gains momentum down the slant of the decks. He pushes off the raised edge of a hatch, kicks his feet toward the mate’s torso, and swings the belaying pin like a club.

The mate turns so that Eamon’s weight glances off and he dodges the blow easily. As his opponent flails by, out of control, he hasn’t planned on Eamon’s other hand trailing behind and latching into his hair. The mate’s head snaps around with Eamon’s full weight and momentum. Bloody hell! He finds himself sprawled on deck with this demon on his back, pulling his hair and clubbing him.

The crew has never seen the mate fall. They are quick to trade foregone conclusions for real interest. One blow lands hard on the side of the mate’s head; his vision blurs with stars. This won’t do, he thinks. Even with the smaller man on his back, he leaps to his feet and wards off the next blow. He needs to loosen this grip on his hair, get him around in front where he can do something to him.

The mate backs up fast. There is an audible crack when their combined weight strikes the mainmast. The crew half groans at the sound of the impact. Eamon gasps and tries to take back his breath while dodging the mate’s blindly grasping hands. He hangs on like a man on a bucking horse while the mate spins around. The mate grabs the wrist of Eamon’s hand that tugs at his hair and catches the other arm. He bends forward as fast and far as he can. Eamon loses hold of the pin but not the hair as he flips over the mate’s head, landing on his back, his head toward the mate. The mate resists the pull on his scalp for a moment and then drives his head down to break Eamon’s nose.

YOU are a DEAD man! he bellows.

Their faces inches apart, Eamon flinches away from his opponent’s putrid breath. The mate’s hands latch onto Eamon’s face and pound his head onto the deck. A thumb digs into one eye socket. His vision blurs with pain. With both of his own hands, Eamon grasps the mate’s wrist but can’t pull away the hand that is about to blind him. He thrashes his head back and forth. When spit, blood, and snot make the mate’s grip slip, Eamon feels a finger in his mouth. He bites down as hard as he can and hears the mate howl. His teeth almost pull out of his head. The mate smashes Eamon’s face with his free hand. Through stars of pain, Eamon feels something in his mouth. The mate recoils to stare at his maimed hand.

This gives Eamon a second to roll over to a low crouch. He spits out the first joint of a finger. The crew leans in a little closer to see the bloody stub. As he tries to draw breath and stand, his broken ribs stab him. His body’s pain is welcome compared to the agony his heart cannot escape. He grimaces. That’s right. Kill me! Please.

If dyin’ is what you want . . .

I WANT NOTHING! There’s nothing left to want. You can’t kill me because you already did when you took me from my family.

But you don’t want it to hurt.

Ha! You jest! To even the mate’s surprise, Eamon laughs and points to his own bloodied face. "This is not pain. This is nothing. I’m already dead, and I’m takin’ you with me."

Eamon lunges to take his opponent over the side of the ship. Even if he gets his arms wrapped around the mate, it will be like trying to tackle a tree. The mate assumes nothing now. He has enough room to box instead